tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368639122012-02-16T13:25:57.990-05:00AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.comBlogger631100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-84160892395524434812011-11-15T00:35:00.003-05:002011-11-15T09:06:01.567-05:00

We stood in the bathroom, him behind me. I pulled the toothbrush out of my mouth. I said: What did they do while they were pooping, before the invention of books? He said: Maybe they whittled. Or knit clothes. I said: They could not have knitted. Imagine you were in an outhouse. The ground and the seat would be dirty. There would be no place to rest the skein. He said: It would have been

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-42649440093108218452011-08-14T03:52:00.001-04:002011-08-14T03:57:00.174-04:00

A while ago I was waiting for something, or waiting for maybe even waiting for several somethings: waiting for well mostly for a response of some kind, like an email or a phone call or a message in a bottle floating towards me on the ocean on like some sort of figurative ocean if you will. I had sent out I guess you could say missives e-missives mostly, I’d sent out floods of pigeons into

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-2881117525573349502011-07-09T19:27:00.000-04:002011-07-09T19:27:04.001-04:00

For breakfast she eats plain yogurt, to which she adds antioxidants, that is to say, berries. She sweetens it with agave nectar. Then she drinks a glass of pomegranate juice and eats one slice of whole spelt bread, with peanut butter, unsalted. For lunch she has vegetable-quinoa salad, along with a side of hummus. She washes it down with clover leaf tea. But later, after dealing with several

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-56932936893191888892011-06-30T00:48:00.003-04:002011-06-30T00:52:07.796-04:00

Their arrangement was simple. On Wednesdays and Sundays at eight o'clock, she materialized on his front porch wearing a floral-printed or maybe paisley skirt, long and loose and gathered with string. She always carried a purse and perhaps an umbrella if it was raining and on Wednesdays a lumpy black bag containing, probably, he assumed, books. She came straight from some regular engagement, but

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-92191554482723836852011-06-09T17:54:00.002-04:002011-06-09T18:19:58.591-04:00

Thousands of unsent words, half-written emails with grandiose language that now seem overwritten, melodramatic, ridiculous. I meant them at the time, though—fervently, every last word. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had sent them. Would I have made a fool out of myself, or might they have helped? Less is more, people tell me; but I cannot shake the conviction, somehow, that the

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-46062197384526562082011-05-19T19:54:00.005-04:002011-05-20T09:40:39.348-04:00

He lay there napping but I was awake. The air was cold. I sat up beside him and pulled a blanket round my shoulders, then looked past his somnolescent form out my window and gazed at nothing. Car sounds roared through the emptiness in my head. I was an impostor. Someone had plucked the rightful woman out of a warm and tender postcoital scene and replaced her with me instead—me, full of

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-83338319438012299452011-04-20T06:17:00.004-04:002011-04-20T07:16:45.773-04:00

I woke up just now to the chatter of early-morning birds and watched the pale predawn light billow out white and gentle upon the world and I thought: It is spring, and I am starting anew.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-54318868745892801302011-04-19T16:13:00.019-04:002011-04-19T17:22:47.573-04:00

I was never born. A vagrant artist drew me into existence one afternoon while sitting in a booth in a narrow back alley where drifters peddle knickknacks that no one needs. He gave me: a toothy too-wide smile; exaggerated ears. Now, huge-headed but skinny-necked, I bobble my way through my cartoon life. Plea: If I was never designed to manifest proportionality and realism, then someday may I at

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-78328221260995532312011-03-27T00:24:00.007-04:002011-03-27T14:39:06.213-04:00

The urge to debase myself, to plead, is always stronger than my need to maintain a semblance of dignified splendour. Shall I then tender my resignation to propriety and do something foolish out of a lack of sobriety? Notoriety would be the only result, though. No: I have more pride than that.Instead: Hold back, keep to yourself, make your face go blank. Your blue funk shows—tuck in your knees and

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-54685695570896857462011-03-18T15:58:00.006-04:002011-03-18T17:17:12.875-04:00

Inside of giants, remember, is a tiny version of their selves, easily spooked, will run and hide in a hollow limb or duck behind organs if you move too quick. Wait a while, though, lie still and be patient: it will peek out of giant eyes and look at you hesitantly, quizzically, it will climb out of a giant mouth, hoisting itself up over giant teeth to look at you hesitantly, quizzically, look at

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-32453637132450955072011-03-01T12:22:00.009-05:002011-03-06T10:02:54.151-05:00

There once was a king who lived in a great castle on top of a hill. The heavens smiled upon him, for his kingdom was bountiful and every year his fortunes grew. He filled his castle with rich tapestries and golden sculptures; his royal self he clothed in robes of velvet. He adorned his queen with precious gemstones and together they dined every night on sumptuous feasts of the plumpest beasts and

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-10363076821846878802011-02-25T13:01:00.003-05:002011-02-25T13:41:27.056-05:00

When you must call doctors to make appointments, or dentists or offices of any kind, do not call during business hours. It is dangerous: a voice will reach through the telephone to grab you by the neck and demand, Quick: what is your business? Quick: why are you calling today? You will get flustered and jumble what you wanted to say. A misunderstanding will arise, and you will have to correct it.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-33224414513443120542011-02-17T13:22:00.006-05:002011-02-18T12:45:49.052-05:00

Snip snap snip snap they went as they cut through the thread on which the basket was dangling. It dropped out of sight into the chasm below. We can only assume it hit ground with a thud, but we shall never know. If its contents spilled everywhere, we shall never see them, nor shall we ever discover what they were. May the dirt be soft, the wind blow gently, the scavengers leave them untroubled

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-55382551968605061522011-02-01T10:37:00.010-05:002011-02-02T11:37:47.204-05:00

I like the sleepy sensuality of mornings. I wake up and feel sunshine and flannel soft against my skin and the soothing weight of blankets. The air is cold but I am wrapped up and folded up in sheets. Lying on my stomach I mold my body into the mattress so that I am cushioned by my own softness; and then I lie still and quiet and just feel things.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-11128900437404637662011-01-22T11:55:00.013-05:002011-01-22T13:50:30.232-05:00

My heart, liver, and kidneys have been wrapped up in plastic and stuffed inside of my chest. They jiggle gelatinously and they ooze out blood. What shall I do with them—eat them with relish? Used for gravy, they would make it taste rich; or they'd add tang to a stuffing. They could simply be browned and sizzled in butter. They might make a wonderful stew. But is it worth the work? I would have

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-26084064389909267202011-01-09T11:36:00.005-05:002011-01-09T11:46:06.873-05:00

(Never fear, my dear readers: In the following post, names and identifying details have been changed to protect privacy.)Arnold is ten years old, bright eyed, a bit chubby. He is staring at me in consternation."I don't know how to do this question. I don't get what it means.""Which one?""This one. What does the triangle sign mean?""Oh, yes. Don't worry, you're not supposed to know what it means

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-72585954193856457292010-12-14T03:24:00.034-05:002010-12-14T10:00:12.465-05:00

One of my favourite things to do is to go into department stores and try on all their hats. I like hats of all sorts—sun hats and newsboy caps, fedoras, berets. I like peculiar hats with feathers and birds on them. I like simple hats too, though.Gradually, I shall amass a collection of hats. I would like to acquire some very garish ones, then wear them with clothes that don't match.I have been

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-18586126298135764732010-10-30T15:48:00.009-04:002010-10-30T19:01:43.254-04:00

The village sage stood in a field all day, hat cocked, eyes fixed forward. He was handsome and kind. He was made out of straw. To the villagers he was indispensable. They talked of their sorrows with him, sought him out for advice. He was known to be an excellent listener. He served as an arbiter in the bitterest disputes, for people trusted that he would never take sides. Only once had anyone

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-69630557721792752192010-10-29T15:13:00.003-04:002010-10-29T15:46:40.112-04:00

My mind communicates to me through a thick layer of cotton. I ask it questions but cotton balls are stuffed in its ears; it tells me answers but cotton balls are stuffed in its cheeks. I strain my ears to no avail: I cannot make out what it is saying.I need it to lead me places but it cannot. Its movements are hampered, for it is fighting through a world packed tight with cotton.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-70950136093687911152010-10-14T22:51:00.008-04:002010-10-14T23:42:53.008-04:00

Nightly before bed, I stare at the static lines of text on my computer screen and wish the letters would begin moving, would sprout arms and legs, would morph into tiny black and white figures with laughing voices and lively eyes. They don't, though. So after a while, sighing, I surrender to solitude; sighing, I surrender to sleep.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-33359663288343559562010-10-04T16:54:00.011-04:002010-10-04T17:43:24.918-04:00

His frame (incongruously sturdy) landed softly with every step and he moved with a hesitance I could never connect with any particular gesture but it always struck me nonetheless. When he walked he did not obtrude upon the world. Deerlike he held himself in, always alert to the omnipresence of danger, one supposed, though what form he thought it might have taken I don't know.Knowing he would pass

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-46477711792255897342010-09-28T13:30:00.015-04:002010-09-28T16:07:12.530-04:00

Language use is a game of hide-and-seek with coy teasing laughing fairy words. They flit about your head but then dart away whenever you want to use them. Even if you catch them they will only wriggle free again. They are lively and delightful but they can't sit still long enough to mean anything.(To write with them you must be patient, you must be coaxing. You cannot give them orders; they will

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-70833576344534183642010-09-15T08:24:00.005-04:002010-09-16T07:24:20.647-04:00

The child had filled up his shelves not with books but with dolls: lines and lines of them, all wearing pink. To each one he had given a name—Esther, or Julia, or Sue, or Cindy. He would take up each in turn and play with it for a while. With their distinct personalities they suited his several moods: one was gentle and good, another feisty; a third cried a lot and always clung to him.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-14410995262420865202010-08-13T23:21:00.000-04:002010-08-13T23:22:13.488-04:00

I am soft, pliable. My spine bends, my ribs expand and contract. I am made up of small chunks of interconnected flip-flopping things. I stand like a jig doll on collapsible joints.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-41309737366951589842010-07-24T20:29:00.006-04:002010-07-24T20:48:11.757-04:00

My driving instructor is middle aged with a gruff voice and grey curly hair. He is twice my size and he talks very fast. I explain that I am nervous about driving and he says, "Don't worry: I believe in student-centred learning."It comes up that I have just graduated. "From where?" he asks, and I tell him I went to Harvard. He then tells me he has to go down to Boston himself sometimes. "I'm

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-68429027400644272922010-06-04T15:53:00.006-04:002010-06-05T20:04:03.449-04:00

Once upon a time there was a man who was supremely happy.His life was proceeding splendidly. Years of hard work, combined with an uncommon intelligence, had brought him considerable success. He had attended prestigious schools; he had earned A's. He had a job now, and it paid well, and he liked it. He had interesting hobbies. He exercised. When he had time, he appreciated art.He had a wide circle

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-52966416126725774882010-05-15T14:49:00.007-04:002010-05-15T16:04:07.116-04:00

Here he said draping a button-down shirt over my shoulders: this is your bathrobe.Holding it closed with one hand I walked out of his bedroom into the dormstyle bathroom down the hall. In the mirror was my reflection, hair tousled face flushed. The shirt was blue and came down to my midthigh, the shoulders landing where teeshirt sleeves should end. I looked at myself engulfed and tiny and

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-91435541993024179062010-03-02T08:10:00.010-05:002010-03-02T09:25:24.680-05:00

I want to look ugly for a while.I want my body hidden beneath oversized sweaters and baggy pants. I want to wear the same clothing for weeks, even if I spill stuff on it. I want to smell. I don't want to shower.I do not want anyone to think I am attractive. I cannot offer myself up for them to find me so. All I want is to be unnoticed and unnoticeable.So I will make myself drab and small. Then,

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-25756044029786725002009-11-30T14:35:00.003-05:002009-11-30T15:01:31.017-05:00

Was it safe out there? After prying open the cellar door I peeked outside. I was met with a wall of faces and of bulging eyes and hands pointing and voices crying and stampeding towards me feet and legs.I slammed the hatch shut again, locked it, barricaded it, quivered in fear. I shall stay down here for a while. Should anyone need to reach me, they may slip a note through the slat on my door.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-6430922720494619762009-11-25T07:54:00.008-05:002009-11-25T08:49:05.684-05:00

"Here," says the wizard, handing me a ladle bubbling with liquid. "Drink this."What is it?"Why, a magic potion!" He clears his throat. "Brewed painstakingly for many weeks, it is my finest work, a paragon of excellence and craftsmanship. May I draw your attention to its vivid colour, its subtle hints of elm and oak. No wizard alive could produce its better."Yes. But what does it do?"It works, my

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-89850257397404909132009-11-22T13:08:00.007-05:002009-11-22T14:39:20.616-05:00

Each day I walk into my classrooms and I sit where I sat last week. I squint at my prof from the usual angle; see the usual side of his head. The people around me (who are always the same) say some things they've said before. And then it so happens that the lecture has ended and I walk out the very same door.(Inevitably, of course, there is given some new information. But I note it down with the

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-40823708031574112382009-09-27T15:57:00.029-04:002009-09-27T17:39:33.474-04:00

I work in a library where nobody goes. It is quiet and the sun shines in. When I am here alone I expand outward solipsistically until my head brushes the rafters and my fingers bat against the ceiling fans. The sun touches me (reaching its rays through the skylights) and like a chubby baby I giggle and squirm. I swell warm and roly-poly into the room and flatten the freestanding shelves. The

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-65351557514776110242009-05-19T14:48:00.015-04:002009-05-19T16:31:35.659-04:00

It takes about a decade for my life experiences to process through my gastrointestinal tract. At time of writing: my stomach leeches nutrients from my early college years; high school still squeezes through my intestines. (Thank goodness, I am shitting out my adolescence. It gave me bad gas.)Just last June I bit off another chunk of my lifespan. I'm almost done chewing it now. It was not bad, but

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-88842387606616541122009-04-12T11:30:00.012-04:002009-04-12T23:47:36.190-04:00

There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. They went on a date, kissed, and fell immediately and passionately in love. They got married and lived happily ever after.There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. He was shy and never expressed his feelings, and neither did she. They never discovered their affection for each other, and

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-25997460160169704412009-02-12T21:01:00.008-05:002009-02-17T21:12:31.842-05:00

Imagine my brain is a countryside and through it run many electric impulses, or messengers.One day from outside my ear there comes a message. My ear receives a collection of sound waves—or perhaps a telegraph arrives by Morse code, top secret, to be delivered to the centre of my consciousness straightaway. The messenger, roused from soft slumber to do his duty, is ready as always: he grasps the

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-9969542811174555422008-07-09T21:42:00.005-04:002008-07-09T22:06:33.918-04:00

On the subway this evening I got hit on by a rich guy. His name was Serge and he worked in a bank.Maybe it wasn't a bank, but it was something financial. He worked at King and Yonge—my milieu of yore—and did something involving charts and graphs and tables of numbers. I know because he showed me them. And then he said, "I'm not bullshitting you—this is really what I do."He told me several times

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-79615439129602934102008-07-06T21:14:00.000-04:002008-07-09T21:41:28.664-04:00

[Copied over from facebook for consistency.]My great achievement of the day is not blowing chunks. For the second time in two weeks, I am facing an epic battle against nausea, dizziness, and fever.Feeling sick gives you lots of time not to do the work you're being paid to get done by Tuesday. Instead, you get to hang out by the toilet (in case you should need it in a hurry) or else lie down

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-80041731875494002662008-06-27T03:40:00.005-04:002008-06-27T04:01:00.183-04:00

Teeth bared, growling, I feel as though I have something to prove. Amidst a community of movers and shakers, I am merely trembling.It seems these days that everyone is trying to change the world. I have never thought myself capable of that. Why I am not trying: despair, laziness. (Are they perhaps the same thing?)How can I say to the world: My existence is worth your notice. I have ideas and

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-32633500108433608402008-06-01T14:47:00.009-04:002008-06-14T18:06:32.534-04:00

It is a problem of translation. I have lost the ability (if I ever had it in the first place) to translate my thoughts into words. To translate my thoughts into thoughts. To transform a vague, instinctual sense of importance into quantifiable, measurable thought-units. To break down the whirling into elements that my rational mind can understand. To untangle the matted mental hairball into

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-70759970100581857692008-05-06T17:30:00.003-04:002008-05-06T17:50:36.506-04:00

Enjoy: amzbhates.blogspot.com

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-20770765479639504092008-04-16T19:43:00.005-04:002008-04-16T20:42:41.535-04:00

My house is full of stinging things. Wasps and hornets, poison ivy, ants wherever I turn. Through dinner I rub myself with nettles till my skin turns raw and red. I eat spiders for lunch and they bite me on the way down. I scratch and itch and shudder and twitch, but still with zeal I expose myself to irritants.I have been trying to remove stressors from my life. I have been lopping them off like

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-32409451819893539032008-04-04T15:54:00.008-04:002008-06-14T17:54:11.676-04:00

Daytimes are all right once you're up and moving. There is the delight in daily things, in things you learn and foods you eat and people you see. Every few minutes brings a tiny surge of excitement that propels you forward, so that you jerk onwards through the day in spurts and sprints that flag only when you run out of novelties. Then you have nothing left to react to, nothing external that'll

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-82182242227152539732008-03-08T15:21:00.001-05:002008-03-16T16:52:54.800-04:00

You walk into the room sporting a burgundy five-buttoned vest over a crisp white shirt. You balance your serving tray in one hand and approach the nearest group of dazzling jet-setters. Offering it to them, you say, "Would you care for some pussy?""Oh, you must try the cunt, dear, it's delightful!" exclaims a fat and bejewelled one to her balding husband."Darling, I couldn't possibly. I had three

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-21503920943693919332007-12-13T13:46:00.001-05:002007-12-13T14:18:11.463-05:00

I like writing and I need to do it more often. I like this blog. When I write here I am relaxed: I have no real purpose in writing, no sense of expository or persuasive urgency. I have almost no readers, so I don't have anyone to entertain. There's no need to get out the fancy silverware and tell charming anecdotes and pretend to know something of world politics and remember whose drinks should

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-16686658125668156572007-11-13T17:09:00.000-05:002007-11-13T17:32:52.805-05:00

When you put paperclips in a container together, they shack up in long polyamorous chains, so that when you pull out one the rest hold onto it and won't let go, stubbornly entangled, as if by clinging to each other they can present a unified front against the indignity of being reduced to their mere functional raison d'être, that is, the indignity of being used to clip paper. It is usually

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-87128284438936045142007-11-12T09:13:00.000-05:002007-11-12T09:44:59.651-05:00

Procedure:1. There is a file with respect to every tenant. When I write a letter to a tenant, I should print out two copies, send one to the tenant, and put the second in the tenant's file.2. When I receive an email with respect to a tenant, I should print that email out, and put that email in the tenant's file.3. When I need to send an invoice to a tenant, I should print out that invoice, and

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-75536195599810347212007-10-24T02:23:00.000-04:002007-10-24T02:27:42.328-04:00

It is Saturday, 5:30. I am at Union Station, with cello, stand, bag of music. My brother is there too. In fifteen minutes we need to be at Harbourfront for a gig.It is hard to negotiate the subway with a cello, and I stop to adjust my grip. Out of nowhere appears a woman. She is overweight, haggard, hard to put an age on her because somehow you know she looks prematurely old. A First Nations

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-18251144954025634192007-08-16T23:03:00.000-04:002007-08-16T23:22:58.015-04:00

I am back after a long hiatus. I am squeezing words out of my brain like orange juice from a lemon—with no hope of achieving the desired result. But nonetheless I force myself to type one letter after another. This week I was alarmed to discover, having for some months now not bothered to put my thoughts into words, that I don't know how to do it anymore. My writing muscle has atrophied. This

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-60941253261938129442007-05-20T15:47:00.000-04:002007-08-01T00:55:16.438-04:00

I have acquaintances and friends enough. There are plenty of people who like me, who think I am interesting, worth knowing. Why is it, then, that I am so obsessed with the few who don't?Consider Lisa (not her real name). I don't know her very well, and I don't like her that much. Some part of me respects her forthrightness, but most of me thinks she is despicable. She dismisses people without

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-52049994303759803932007-04-16T16:25:00.000-04:002007-04-16T16:44:10.690-04:00

Every day I tell myself that I ought to write something—whether here or on a scrap of paper somewhere. Why can't I?Perhaps I am gradually losing my ability to think and feel. I have become somehow stunted, emotionally and cognitively.I need a clever method of personal renewal. I need an idea. I need something to do.

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-72632803648205111122007-02-25T16:41:00.000-05:002007-02-25T16:48:29.300-05:00

To celebrate Erik's recent facebook engagement to a singer named Sara, we co-wrote a love poem for him to post on her facebook wall. Here it is in all its glory:My little love, my darling SaraYour voice it soothes like aloe veraYou'll make your mark upon our eraMuch like Schumann, comma, ClaraMy life was bleak and I was dourUntil I met my lovely flowerWe will be wed — I await the hour(I promise

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-2720962795670585892007-02-24T01:17:00.000-05:002007-02-24T01:33:06.123-05:00

I hate it. I hate that I am obsessed. I hate that I check the same facebook profile over and over again, even though I know it won't have changed. I hate that I compulsively google a name so common that I'm sure to find nothing interesting at all. I hate that I sit here late at night every night, trying to come up with some goddamn excuse to send an email but finding none--because what would

AMZBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13203953914455970734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-28814080740486875022007-02-11T21:57:00.000-05:002007-02-12T10:15:22.788-05:00

Brought to you by the Toronto Transit Commission and long, boring commutes thereon.Once upon a time, a lonely Yonge-Sheppard by the name of Lawrence was walking home when he caught a glimpse of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was riding along in a carriage, haughtily looking out on the world like a Queen, when suddenly she glanced down at him. They were from two Dufferin worlds, but

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-28236205710477026652007-02-03T23:44:00.000-05:002007-02-04T07:10:26.202-05:00

I spent most of the last several days saying goodbye. I'm going to be gone from Cambridge for a long time--a year, maybe. By the time I get back, everything will have changed. People will have left, will have forgotten me, will have moved on with their lives. The fragile friendships I have nurtured so carefully, the delicate green tendrils just peeking through my lonely dead-wood social life,

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-58460760784220964122007-01-28T23:37:00.000-05:002007-01-28T23:52:03.269-05:00

I was going to reward myself with a beer tonight, a nice cold one at the bar next door, but instead I think I won't. I have done nothing worthy of reward, and I would rather sit here on my bed (looking out onto my mess of a room) and enumerate my faults. I will milk the poison out of my brain as if I were a snake; I will save it, treasure it, store it in a vial on my shelf. One day, when there is

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-5785609259333245382007-01-22T17:15:00.000-05:002007-01-22T17:19:06.048-05:00

My semester is a train wreck. It derailed, went off a cliff, flipped over a few times and landed with a loud crunching noise. Smell the air: burnt metal, burnt flesh.In a couple of days, when finals period is officially over, they'll fish my mangled body out of the carnage, and someone will say, "But where are: two final papers, four problem sets?" I will groan and whimper, and bleed out on their

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-1168933494502707382007-01-16T01:59:00.000-05:002007-01-16T02:48:29.240-05:00

This is a notice advising you that we find your conduct on 16 January 2007 unacceptable. According to our records, at 1:43 AM on said date you received a morsel of food from Mr. Esophagus which, according to company policy, you were required to process and forward to the Department of Intestinal Affairs. Instead, according to a complaint filed at the Gag Reflex Centre, you stated your intention

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-1168071890036417152007-01-06T02:32:00.001-05:002008-03-01T10:51:55.489-05:00

Back from an emotional holiday to my glib Cambridge existence. I'm not sure which is worse--feeling too much or feeling too little.Tonight I was walking in the Square when I caught some lady staring at me. It was because I had been talking to myself--and quite exuberantly too. I think she was somewhat afraid; I was the "crazy" you cross the street to avoid.I wasn't actually talking to myself but

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-1164831031656257972006-11-29T14:13:00.000-05:002006-11-29T15:11:32.460-05:00

I am a flake. I cancel out of things at the last minute. When I can't bring myself to make excuses, sometimes I just don't show up.On some days I have no commitments. I quit HRO so that I would have Tuesdays entirely free. When I get to the end of Monday--if I don't flake out of Monday--I heave a sigh of relief. A whole 36 hours before I have to face the world again.Today I flaked out of all my

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-1163875049909658482006-11-18T13:23:00.000-05:002006-11-18T17:34:30.336-05:00

Let us interrupt our regular programming for a special announcement:Harvard's radio station, WHRB, interviewed me for a show they're doing on Sunday; apparently my reputation as a minor Harvard celebrity continues to make me interesting even now. I definitely had a fun time doing it--somebody actually encouraged me to yabber on--and all of you should listen in. I don't know how much of my

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-1163446434198340072006-11-13T14:19:00.000-05:002006-11-13T15:47:54.000-05:00

Imagine this: you're a toreador and things are getting bad. The bull butts its head into you, and with a slash of its horns you're down.It rushes past you, its hooves crushing your legs, breaking your kneecaps. You can barely move. You sit up, boosting yourself up with your arms, trying to ignore the pain in your legs. You know you have to get out of the way. Your hands dig into the sod as you

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-1162922352376877342006-11-07T12:14:00.000-05:002006-11-07T13:01:43.883-05:00

Every time I sit down in Music Building Room 2 (where on Monday nights Music 180 is held) I feel like the world is going to end. I don't know what it is about the room that creeps me out so much. There is a lot of noise, to be sure: a rattling double door, a roaring radiator. The sounds of Mozart Society seep in from upstairs, while Professor Levin's resonant voice booms. Papers rustle, people

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36863912.post-1162430541168708972006-11-01T20:19:00.000-05:002006-11-01T20:35:39.516-05:00

I have taken the plunge. I have started a blog.I was a blogger for over four years, but a few months ago I gave it up. Most of what I wrote was tedious, inane, inconsequential; eventually I realised that I bored even myself. But this time it will be different. I have started anew--a new blog, a clean slate, and no lingering reminders of my high school idiocy. Here only my college idiocy will be

AMZBnoreply@blogger.com4